


The Reluctant Guide

by neichan



Category: Angel: the Series, Bones (TV), Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-19
Updated: 2008-05-19
Packaged: 2019-02-05 16:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12798444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neichan/pseuds/neichan
Summary: Blair meets something he never expected to. Jim is hunting his missing Guide. Booth gets a visit and a surprise. Spike is dying to take a bite. And Angel...broods.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

  
Author's notes: Warnings: Naughty!Spike. Broody!Angel. Slash. Really. I mean it. Slash. Run!  
  
Dedication and author's note: For Joan, who wanted a reluctant Guide, and a hunting Sentinel....I'm writing this purely for fun and to keep my hand in while my 'Bought' Muse is napping....chapters may be long, or short as the bunny hops...be forgiving!  


* * *

"Well, fuck me raw, what do we have here?" The black clad vampire dropped his cigarette into the dirt and ground it out with the toe of his boot as he watched the small man who ran down the street keeping to the shadows as much as possible. The long curly hair was wildly disheveled, but that was nothing compared to the look in the man's blue eyes, he was on the edge, that one was.

 

"Spike." Angel’s tone was quelling as usual, and the bleached blond looked at him over one leather-clad shoulder. The smirk was pure Spike and Angel just shook his head.

 

A movement further down the street caught their attention before the exchange could deteriorate into the increasingly more common snarky fights they engaged in. Spike was chafing under the inactivity of living with his Sire. Angel was simply no fun at all.

 

But this…it looked like some action at least. The large, brooding presence of his Sire couldn't prevent this from happening. Spike was going to get a chance to do something tonight. He flexed his hands and grinned. Yes!

 

There were six vampires in the group tracking the unknown human. And while the small man moved quickly and without the least hesitation, almost as if he knew the area as well as the back of his hand, he was still human and no match for a pack of hunting vamps. Spike judged they'd have him cornered in another block or two.

 

Angel was radiating the feel he got when he was anticipating mayhem. He couldn't hide it from Spike; the blond shook his head, nope, and Spike knew his Sire better than anyone else living…or not. He grinned ferally, trying to see just who the pursuers were. If they were an old pack they should know better. If new, they were about to learn a valuable and fatal lesson. No one hunted in Angel's territory. The poofter had no sense of humor about that at all, as Spike could personally attest to.

 

It had been purely in fun. He'd been tracking one of the humans himself, not letting the man see him, just to take the edge off and keep up his skills. The sodding chip kept him from hurting them, didn't it? So it was all in fun. Only Angel didn't quite agree. He didn't like Spike terrorizing anyone on his patch. Despite the chip not stopping Spike from fighting other demons, his Sire included, Angel had beaten the snot out of him. Since then Spike had been on a very short leash indeed. All because he'd wanted just a little harmless fun. A bloke could get terminally bored in Los Angeles, who would have guessed that. He should definitely have bought a clue when he recalled the city was called the City of the Angels.

 

Spike shook his head. The pack was gaining on the little human. It wouldn't be long and he'd finally have some ass kicking to do. Spike licked his lips. At fucking last, any more peace and he was going to become a raving nutter. He felt Angel move up beside him and he shuddered. Whatever else you wanted to say about the poof, he had presence.

 

As if in response to the thought, Spike saw the pack hesitate, their pace slowing. He saw them looking around, tracking the dark patches, looking for the wrongness they were now sensing, too late. The poor idiots had been caught hunting. Not even running would save them now. Angel was not one to forgive intrusions into the space that was his.

 

Across the street the little human had turned, sensing the pack closing in. Spike felt a spurt of interest at that. The pack had been running silent, not something a human should be able to sense. It wasn't an accidental discovery either; there was something about the curly headed bloke….

 

'Hello.' Spike thought, his hair standing on end as the blue eyes found him even deep in the shadows where no human should have been able to see. Not a chance finding, not the man's gaze skimming over the area, checking. The human knew Spike was there. Those dark blue eyes looked right at him, the shock of contact like an ice pick into Spike's brain.

 

Spike was moving even before Angel pushed a hand against his back. He was across the street and going for the human as his Sire faced off with the pack that had stopped stock still when they saw who was approaching. Angel. Spike smirked, yeah; the poor buggers knew they'd bitten off more than they could chew, but, too, too late.

 

Spike had to give the blighters credit for one thing, they could fight. He planted himself in front of the human who had been the packs' prey, and watched. Angel fighting was a bloody work of art, and Spike didn't even try to tear his eyes away. Christ a bloke could be excused for getting hard watching it.


	2. Chapter 2

Angel sensed them coming well before Spike did. The older vampire whirled and then went still, his head turning only a fraction from side to side, dark eyes gleaming, listening for the whisper of a sound. Spike knew that his Sire was tracking something. He reluctantly cut off his taunting of the remaining vampires, both of whom were sprawled on the dirty tarmac, barely conscious.

 

The two vampires who Spike hadn't had time to dust, got to their hands and knees, trying to find their wits, shaking their ringing skulls. Angel ignored them as if he didn't care if they got away from the punishment they'd earned; the ashy dust of the others covered his and Spike's dark clothes. The two who hadn't died the true death were young and weak, and Spike supposed he and Angel were toying with them like tomcats after fat little mice. But Spike didn't want them to get away. Spike wanted to feel sternums crunch, ribs splinter, and flesh turn to dust. Spike wanted to play.

 

Angel lost interest. Spike could feel the power of his Sire's attention shift as it was absorbed elsewhere. He looked around first into the shadows and under the heaped mountains of trash to assess for closer threats. There were none aside from the staggering, addled pair of soon to be dead vamps, so he looked back to where Angel stood like a brooding bronze statue, heavy head swinging imperceptibly, searching for what had bothered him.

 

The little human was behind them all, gone so quiet Spike wasn't sure he was breathing. It was as if every hair on the man's body was erected, on alert, and yet he looked even smaller than before, as if he wished he could disappear into the very earth and be gone. Spike looked back over his leather-encased shoulder to make sure the other vampires were still down and sneered, letting his eyes go gold. A frisson of something, or a change in the way Angel stood....or...Spike let the game of intimidation go and concentrated hard. He paced four steps up to Angel's side and stopped, feeling his chest swell, his stance go aggressive.

 

There was nothing from the direction Angel looked in, not for a long moment, not even a sound that didn't fit to warn Spike. He was getting itchy, there were two more vamps that needed dusting, both on their feet now and soon capable of flight, and he was just standing here...not dusting them. True they weren't much of a challenge, not even making a move towards the human who had been their intended prey.

 

It had been good to whirl and stab and win. To kill something, anything, to have the taste of doling out death again. Christ, he'd been almost to the point of pulling wings off flies for a bit of fun.

 

At last, right before Spike was going to foolishly open his mouth and whine, his fingers flexing with the burn of need to ~do it~ around the splintery stake in his hand...there was the sound of running feet, but so quiet, so secret; it was impossible that they were so fast. The footfalls were too many. Spike felt the involuntary prickle of alarm start in the small of his back, shooting in both directions at once. What was coming with the speed of a freight train was anything but good.

 

When they came into view Spike almost took an involuntary step back. They should not have been so close, not from the muffled sound that had heralded their advance, too quiet by half. They swept in like a darkness from the clouds, like a misty drift of lethal plague. They were suddenly there. Like water poured, filling the shape of the glass. That fast it went all to shit. Fucking hell.

 

Sentinels. Spike almost pissed himself, would have if his sphincter hadn't locked so tight. He wanted to get the hell away from here, now. Whatever amusement he might have taken from the righteous fight with the hunting vampire pack, getting them no less than their comeuppance for hunting in his Sire's territory was washed away by a wave of instinctive fear. His testicles tried to climb up into his body. He wanted to go. Go. GO! But to run would draw them after him, they loved the chase, and were far better suited for hunting and capture than a vampire was for flight and evasion.

 

There was a moment, admittedly brief, where he thought he would run despite the knowledge of what it would bring. But Angel shifted, less than a fraction, and bumped into his body, the faintest of contacts. The touch was enough. Spike stayed put. The two vampires who had at last found their feet and a too small portion of their wits weren't so lucky. They ran.

 

Vampire fast, they still didn't stand a chance. Spike watched the hunters die. Fluid attack, like lions driving zebra before them, exactly where they wanted the prey to go. It was fast, brutal, emotionless. Pure instinct. Pound for pound nothing hunted better than a Sentinel, not human, nor animal, nor demon. Ash floated to the ground. The Sentinels stood, not exactly arrogant, not exactly proud, but perfect in their element, accomplished. One shook himself. Spike stared at the ripple of lean, honed muscle under clothing. The furthest Sentinel licked its lips; another stretched its neck, turned.

 

The sharp blue eyes focused on different targets then. Three pairs of eyes, one gaze dark enough to be thought black, one a regular blue if lasers were normal fare, but the pair that squeezed Spike's balls were ice blue. Chill, feral. Nasty. Spike shifted partly behind the bulk of his Sire. He couldn't have stopped himself, didn't try. Survival instinct was paramount. Sentinels were just human enough he wasn't certain he could hit one with the chip in his head. So, it was his Sire's duty to shield him, wasn't it? Part of being a good parent, right?

 

Angel didn't react, standing like stone.

 

The icy blue eyes of the largest Sentinel flicked down to the stake Spike held, assessing. His tongue flickered out again, tasted the air, as if weighing Spike's intent by his scent alone. Spike's fingers opened and he dropped the wood.

 

The clatter was loud as it hit the ground, startling, the Sentinels flinching minutely, and so Spike could be excused for not immediately hearing the gasp from the small human who had been the prey before Angel and Spike chose others to take that role. Now the man moved again, scurried rapidly, the droplets of mist on his hair catching the faint light like glittering micro-diamonds, his hair a puff of fractured reflections.

 

And fuck him if he didn't run ~towards~ Spike and Angel. Spike wanted to shoot him, strangle him, beat him to a pulp. Spike watched in horrified fascination as the man came, wishing the tasty nugget would run anywhere, in any other direction. Because the Sentinels snapped into tracking mode again. He saw their shoulders loosen, hands curling loosely, their eyes elongating, their lips parting, blazing white teeth revealed, drawing air into sense-gifted mouths and noses, tasting, scenting, then filtering in deeper, into lungs, internalizing every scrap of information in each millimeter of air.

 

Spike's scrotum was so tight he thought his berries would come out his mouth as the Sentinels took the first step towards Angel, himself, and the small human bloke who was lodged against Spike's spine. Small hands clung with surprising strength, and Spike knew he wasn't getting free without a tussle. Which starting was out of the question. Not while they were being hunted.

 

Angel for his part never moved. Spike felt not even a tremor from the solid form of his Sire.


	3. Chapter 3

One week earlier.

 

 

"Booth." The FBI agent barked into the phone, making no effort to hide one iota of his irritation. He did not need to be disturbed right now. Another half hour and the paperwork for the Craddock case would be done. One more serial killing asshole put away for good.

 

The powers that be never seemed to kill the madmen who carved their twisted, bloody paths through the world; there was always someone who felt it was inhumane, or not civilized to eliminate the worthless husks. Human? Not by a long shot. Humans didn't drool over watching men and women die by slow inches. They didn't beat off while sliding the blade of a very sharp knife into a screaming victim's guts. Just thirty more minutes and he'd wash his hands of Craddock forever. Then he'd never have to think about the sick bastard again.

 

Serial killers were demons in human form. Which wasn't fair exactly to the demons. Booth had met demons who were far more human than a lot of the humans he encountered day to day. And some who were not. His job was tracking down the human monsters, not the demonic ones. Men like Craddock, who had at least twelve kills to his credit. Twelve lives snuffed out over the years, probably more, but Booth expected never to know who they were. Craddock guarded his victims' in his memory. He didn't share the visual recall with anyone. He didn't brag about what he'd done. He just savored it.

 

Booth thought the way to handle Craddock and men like him was not gathering evidence, holding a trial and eventual incarceration until the motherfucker was dead. It was a bullet to the brain. No muss, no fuss. Fast, clean, necessary, and so not going to happen. Instead, he had paperwork to do. Reams of it, and he was almost done...almost.

 

But the phone, predictably, had rung. Damn it. Well, no need to hide how he felt about it. 

 

"Catch you at a bad time?" The voice on the other line was unmistakable, one Seely Booth would never forget or fail to recognize even over a crackling phone line. Probably the one of the few voices he could tolerate hearing at a time like this without wanting to kill. Someone who understood exactly how he felt. He leaned back in his chair, momentarily speechless. He could be hallucinating. It had been that long and the call from the other was that unlikely. He'd have been less surprised to receive a call from the President of the United States. Which had happened. Once. Years ago. But....

 

"Christ…Ellison?" Booth ran out of words again after those two. James Joseph Ellison, his former commander, the man who had saved his sorry ass from certain death twice. Who he hadn't seen in eight years. Or talked to in just as long. Tall, hard as granite, tough as steel, and good-looking to boot. Not that Booth swung that way. Not any longer. Not since he'd been honorably discharged, out of Black Ops, and once again had access to women who were neither victims, or enemy combatants.

 

"In the flesh." The tone was dry, precise. And Booth almost closed his eyes, remembering. He managed to keep his eyes open, his gaze fixed on the window opposite, just barely.

 

"Jesus." He said. Yeah, it was Ellison. And he didn't need this right now. But there was no way he could go back to what he'd been doing either. His mind was way back lost in time eight years ago, ankle deep in mud, automatic rifle braced at his hip, cammo paint all over his exposed skin, waiting for.... He scooted his chair back, stood, needing to hear the discordant scrape of chair legs across cheap linoleum. His crisp white shirt was damp under his pits. What, fifteen seconds? That was all it took and he was sweating. He was screwed. 

 

"Where are you?" Booth asked the man waiting on the other end of the line, needing to buy time to think. Why was Ellison here now? The Craddock file was forgotten. Hell, he didn't care if he ever finished it. He'd walk out right now if he was asked. Come back later, and put the bullet in that sorry brain. 

 

"Downstairs. Meet me?" It wasn't a question; there was a tone of urgency in the calm, even toned voice. Booth reached for his gun and badge, clipping the latter onto his belt one handed, and seated his gun in its holster. Meet him? Not a question that needed asking. His body was answering before his mouth caught up.

 

"Sure, yeah. On the way." Booth pushed the papers further away, clicking off his computer and grabbed his coat, heading for the lobby. This was going to be good. He worked on getting his shaking ass down the stairs in record time.


	4. Chapter 4

The apparent leader of the Sentinels paced forward in that beautiful predatory tread that brought to mind large hunting cats. Clothed in all black, the fabric fitting to his sleek frame, he came nearer and nearer to the two vampires, one of whom was shamelessly hiding, and the Guide. He licked his lips, flashing strong white teeth, tasting the scent of the Guide that lingered tantalizing on the air. 

 

Angel didn't move. He didn't back away, or flinch at the approach of the predator. Not even when a long, fearsomely muscled arm reached out and the Sentinel, his blue eyes challenging, eager, laid his hand on Angel's chest, clearly hoping to provoke a reaction. He pushed his hand onto Angel's chest hard, his fingers flexing. 

 

"Make your heart beat, vampire." The Sentinel ordered, his voice dark with promises of retribution if he was disobeyed. His fine nostrils flared as he sniffed again, taking in the scents of the three in front of him. He turned to look directly at Spike, well, the one eye and part of his head that Spike allowed to show. He sniffed again, a long low inhale. He grinned; Spike shuddered.

 

Spike let out a whine, not trying to hide his own fang exposing snarl of revulsion as the Sentinel's hand settled more comfortably, as intimate as an all knowing touch might be, on Angel's chest. Aware of pulse, breathing, heat, and emotion. If the thing reached towards him, Spike had already decided to bite. Angel didn't react beyond looking into the Sentinel's chilled eyes. He didn't move to shove him away.

 

"Make your heart beat." The Sentinel said again, showing the black tips of his claws, extending them just enough to give a warning prick to the Vampire's pale skin through the red/black of Angel's silk shirt. Little dots of blood soaked into the fabric. 

 

 

"My Territory." Angel repeated. "The Guide denies he is yours. You have no reason to pursue him here. Leave." Spike waited for all hell to break loose, for the Sentinels to tear them to pieces. But the lead Sentinel stepped back, withdrawing his hand almost at once, regarding the larger of the vampires with interest. He ignored the single drop of blood that rolled off his index claw, though Spike sure could smell it, and hear it hit the ground. His Sire's blood. His Sire's delicious, precious blood. 

 

"Your territory." He acknowledged after a pause, his handsome face nearly pouting, continuing to lock his gaze with Angel for long moments. Then with an odd quirk to his mouth, he spun on his heel, sprang into top speed and was gone. His band vanished with him, one moment there, the next...gone, faster than any creatures Spike had ever seen. Unnatural they were. Spike straightened up from his semi-crouch behind his sire. He shook himself, and dusted off his coat. Vampire ash. Yuck. Maybe he was due to take a trip to the cleaners. Keep himself looking handsome, dashing, hot, that took effort. He felt rather than saw the movement start behind him. 

 

The Guide took the opportunity to make a break for it. He had taken all of two strides when he was halted by a hand bunched in the back of his jacket. He yelped, twisted, and Angel was left holding an empty coat watching as the small man sprinted away. Spike took a giant leap after him, and managed to grab two fistfuls of flannel shirt. 

 

Thutt, thutt, thutt....another squirm and wiggle, buttons flying every which way, and he was holding a shirt and watching the little weasel running away. 

 

Angel stopped it all, leaping in front of the Guide and lifting him up over his shoulder in a dizzying sweep, before the small man knew what was going on. He was left clutching at Angel's back, his eyeballs fairly spinning.


	5. Chapter 5

Booth paused for just long enough to peer out into the large room that housed the secretarial pool. Agent's offices surrounded the periphery of the pool, windows mostly covered with drawn blinds, and a quick but thorough glance told him that all the agents were out or had their doors closed tight. He saw young, dark haired John Meyers in the window on the phone and gesticulating in a manner that made his unhappiness with the conversation he was having abundantly clear. In spite of himself Booth smiled, as he scanned the rest of the room. It was close to lunchtime and the only people left were typing furiously on computers at two desks near the far wall. Booth put to use his rusty Special Forces training and slipped out and into the stairwell without a sound. He eased the heavy fire door shut behind him and took off down the stairs.

 

 

He passed no one in the stairwell; even agents who were expected to keep in shape preferred the gym treadmills to walking stairs in the old concrete building. The lighting was dim, and what heating there was, was inadequate. Untraveled it was the perfect escape route for an ex-Special Forces guy like Booth. He used the stairs often, though he avoided making his preference obvious when he could. Bones was the only person who willingly went up and down stairs anywhere and everywhere with Booth, usually talking a mile a minute as she flew up any number of flights, totally unaware of how impressive her feat was. She was in great cardiovascular shape. Booth's drill instructors would have drooled over her, hell, Ellison would have been impressed, he reflected.

 

 

The silent trip to the first floor took four minutes, the soles of his shoes sliding along the slick steps, another reason not to take the stairs, it was easy, if your shoes were at all wet, to fall, there was no traction. Booth made it all the way down without incident. He exited the stairs from behind a grouping of huge potted plants, which served to shield the door from public view. The FBI didn't want people in the stairs where cameras hadn't been updated since the Reagan administration. He slipped out without even drawing a single glance from the two agents manning the front desk. He frowned, making a note to have a word with them about it. If he could get out unobserved, that meant others might stand a chance of getting in unseen...not a good thing.

 

 

Booth made it to the street and chose to walk right. He walked at a normal pace, knowing that Ellison would find him, and not wanting to draw attention by loitering in front of the building or walking too slowly. He didn't look around as if searching for something or someone, he just walked. It took only minutes.

 

 

A tall, lean man, well tanned, with jet black hair razor-ed to a half inch long, sporting the sharp cheek-boned face and cut body of a career military man who was field ready at all times, stepped out of a side street. He was visible only for a moment in casual clothes, nothing remotely military, even kids wore all black these days, so that didn't stand out here. He let Booth see him then was gone back around the corner of the building. It was long enough for Booth to recognize Captain Benjamin Sarris, one of Ellison's legendary team, even before he saw the flash of eerie grey eyes take him in. The man's eyes glowed; it had always creeped most of the recruits out. If you could stand Sarris' stare you were halfway to completing boot camp. Not the regular boot camp, but Ellison's camp. A very different thing.

 

 

Booth ambled along in the direction the man had disappeared in. Rounding the corner he was just in time to see Sarris vanish into a van with tinted windows. The side door was left open. Booth stepped inside never slowing his stride and the panel slid shut behind him. The van eased from the curb, going the speed limit and no faster, before Booth felt his ass hit the seat.

 

 

Sarris was on one side of him, sitting close as the interior of the van, big as it was, wasn't big enough to seat three large men side by side with much in the way of elbow room. Booth turned as he felt another person settle on the seat to his right. Will Sanders, black and beautiful. There was no other way to describe the man. Dark chocolate eyes, rich cocoa skin, absolutely flawless, without one visible scar, his mouth was full, his teeth perfectly white, so even they'd make a dentist cry. His hair was short, curled tightly, with no attempt to change it's natural state. At forty he looked twenty, a muscular man who people always assumed was a famous athlete. He didn't smile often, and now he just nodded a greeting, his eyes moving to the windows and watching.

 

 

Sam Harris was driving, Booth saw when he looked forward. Another tall man with the same shape the other two had. Dark curly hair, cut short, hiding the fact it did tend to curl. Booth had seen that hair long on a mission once, it had been thick and blue black, hair a woman would pray for. Harris had a Semper Fi tattoo on his forearm, USMC, where he'd been recruited from. He was also missing the little finger from the same hand, it had been lost during the boot camp Ellison's team conducted, a loose wire, not noticed, turned into a slicing instrument sharper than any knife. The finger was gone in an instant, and Harris had never slowed in his run down the dusty street, blood pouring. The error hadn't been his, the man who was responsible for the oversight was out of camp by nightfall, and not seen again. Harris, at twenty-seven was the youngest member of Ellison's team.

 

 

Booth turned to look as a sound came from behind him. Ellison was in the process of sitting up. He'd clearly been laying down, his head pillowed in the lap of the man next to him. There was no one else occupying the seat, only Jim and Rafi.

 

Rafi smiled at Booth and gripped his shoulder for an instant. They hadn't known each other that well, but that was just his way, Rafi liked to touch, and he did, often and in a curiously intimate way. Mostly people he knew well, but some times...Booth had seen him touch strangers and they had allowed it, not moving away. Who wouldn't with a smile like that directed at them? Rafi was close to six feet, lean and brown, his last name, Mendez. He had the longest lashes Booth had ever seen. Longer than his regulation quarter inch haircut. His hand still rested on Jim's arm, typical of him.

 

 

Ellison looked awful in sharp contrast to the rest of his team. He was gaunt rather than cut; his skin had a greying cast. His eyes, usually a vibrant, icy blue were dull. His mouth was compressed in a way Booth recognized from men he'd seen who were suffering chronic illnesses. His skin had a sheen of sweat. Yes, Ellison looked like pure fucking hell. Rafi slid an arm around his commander, supporting him. His chin was hard now, no trace of his pretty smile remained. His golden brown eyes were concerned, attentive.

 

 

The van turned a corner and got onto the expressway, speeding up. They were, Booth saw, heading out of town.


End file.
